


Beneath the Corsican Stars

by appleschmapple



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst with a Happy Ending, Homophobia, M/M, Multiverse, Reincarnation, there's some mild racism in there too i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 07:33:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9809456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appleschmapple/pseuds/appleschmapple
Summary: "I believe there is another world waiting for us, Sixsmith. A better world, and I’ll be waiting for you there. I believe we do not stay dead long. Find me beneath the Corsican stars, where we first kissed."Star-crossed lovers, they say, are doomed to meet a tragic end. Time and time again, our ill-fated protagonists try to best the forces that guide them to no avail. And yet, Keith and Lance continue to cross one another, driven to find the one ending where love triumphs over destiny. Perhaps sometimes, the universe rewards those who persevere.





	

“Paladins, the castle’s defenses can’t hold out much longer! You must...”

Allura’s distressed voice over the communicator… Heavy footfalls bounding toward them… Shots careening into the reinforced walls of the Galra hangar…  They all grow garbled and distant, losing out to the impossibly loud sound of his own ragged breaths. His eyes stare up at the hollow lion, pleading desperately for a sign of life that he knows will never come. Shiro’s disappearance had made it incredibly easy for Zarkon’s commanders to capture the black lion in his stead.

 _‘If anything happens to me, I want you to lead Voltron,’_ his words resurface, bringing the weight of a thousand worlds with them right down onto his shoulders.

Leaden feet remain frozen in place.

_Where are you, Shiro?_

Thick swallow to suppress the twisting in his gut.

_You can’t leave us like this._

The ringing in his ears continues.

_I’m not ready to lead--!_

“Keith!” A hand clamps down on his shoulder, hard. “Snap out of it, man, we gotta go! Aw, quiznak--”

Giving his partner a solid shove toward the lion, Lance takes aim as a second wave of sentries make it past the threshold, calling over his shoulder, “Your sharpshooter can only hold out for so long!”

Keith stumbles forward at the other’s insistence and presses a shaky hand to the shut mouth that is the lion’s entrance, brows knitting together in consternation.

“Hey... it’s me again,” he begins in a feeble voice he hardly recognizes as his own, a pitiful murmur that is near inaudible amidst the cacophony of gunfire, “I know I’m not your paladin, but we need you.”

Nothing…

Keith’s heart sinks as several tense seconds go by with no response, and for once, he contemplates that maybe this time they _won’t_ make it out. Suddenly a deep purr echoes in his mind and the black lion’s giant maw glides open for him.

Turning back to call for Lance, his eyes grow wide as he spots an automated sentry closing in through Lance’s blind spot. He charges for him, calling forth his shield, but he is much too far. The beam of light rips through the blue paladin’s midriff and he crumples to his knees, bathed in red.

“Lance!”

Keith skids to ground level beside him and brings the shield up, slinging Lance’s arm over his shoulders and lifting. Lance’s head lolls against his chest.

“Hang in there, Lance!” he shouts over the hail of shots, all but dragging his injured teammate up into the ship.

Mouth hissing shut behind them, Keith’s bayard retracts and clatters to the ground, the helmets following suit as he discards all nonessentials in a flurry of motion. Lance coughs against him and groans, staining the white of his armor with flecks of red. Keith carefully releases and drops to his knees along with him, assessing the extent of the damage. All that red. He presses his hands against the wound but it makes little difference.

“Don’t worry, Lance, we’ll get you to a pod and fix this, alright?”

“Too far…” comes Lance’s weak whisper in response.

His stinging eyes frantically scan the vessel. “Well there has to be something in here that can--”

“... ’s too late.” Another wet cough. Red dribbles down his chin.

“Don’t say that!” Keith snaps, hot tears pouring over his cheeks.

Abandoning his futile attempt, stained hands pull the other in close and cradle him gently as they had once before.

“What about going home..?” he asks, forcing the words past the lump in his throat.

Lance gives a weak chuckle, lips quirking up into a serene smile.

“I _am_ going home.”

Keith chokes back a sob as his ocean blue eyes slide shut, leaning down and pressing his forehead against Lance’s.

“You idiot,” he murmurs miserably, clinging to his partner’s limp body, “I can’t lose you too…”

* * *

  **Uppsala. 793 CE.**

Blue eyes watch as the acolytes guide rivulets of blood into small dishes, carrying them into the temple. It’s his first time making the trip to Uppsala; upon receiving his arm band at the coming of age ceremony, the earl’s son had begged his father to let him visit the temple of the gods at the next gathering. Now, with the ritual well underway, he isn’t quite sure how to feel. The priest motions toward two more acolytes and when they set off to bring the next group, he steps forward and speaks once again.

“Today, we ask that the gods continue to favor us, guide us, and provide their protection. We offer the blood of all living creatures in Midgard and hope that our sacrifice pleases the gods and repays our debts.”

The boy hears the footfalls of returning aides and stands on his tiptoes, wondering what animal could possibly be next when he spies a familiar mop of messy, dark hair. His breath hitches in his throat. Sigurd’s brother, no more than two or three years older than him, is being led to the front. He is stripped of his white tunic and when he lowers his arms and turns back to the crowd, gray eyes catch his own, which he quickly averts.

“You mustn't look away,” his father tells him in a hushed tone, lowering himself, “It is their wish to be offered to the gods for their people and we must honor their sacrifice.”

He slowly lifts his gaze once more and as the other lies back on the sacrificial altar and shuts his eyes, the boy realizes that he has never seen a more peaceful look than the one on the sacrifice’s face.

* * *

  **Manhattan. 1935.**

“Well, don’t you look dapper,” Lance teases, tugging at the lapels of the pressed gray suit, “She’s got you togged to the bricks, huh?”

“Oh shut up,” Keith grouses halfheartedly in response, taking hold of the playful hands and holding them still. Melancholic eyes rise from the ground and he adds, “She’s talking about my father’s university again.”

Lance chortles, “Isn’t she always? Don’t worry, your ma’s just trying to scare ya. She’d never send you all the way to Cambridge-- then who’d be left to boss around?”

He doesn’t look too convinced. “She sounds serious…”

“So what?” Lance rolls his wrists, taking the other’s hands into his own and pulling him closer to the sill, “Your ma is gonna be outta luck. Soon as I get things sorted out with my folks, we’ll move out West.”

He reaches up and runs his fingers through Keith’s slicked-back hair, coming around the side to caress his cheek.

“Just you and me.”

Keith meets him in a kiss and when they part, a soft smile graces his lips as he says, “You’re downright whacky, you know that?”

“Only for you,” the taller man replies, pressing one last peck to his cheek before getting to his feet on the fire escape, “I have to go, got a shift at Pat’s today.”

Keith grips the sill. “Will I see you before the weekend?”

“Of course,” he calls over his shoulder with a wink and a wave, starting down the iron steps.

“I’ll be waiting!”

Hustling down the stairs two at a time and riding the sliding ladder down, Lance hops to the pavement and adjusts his cap, heading into an alley to save time. He’s already ten minutes late, and the old man won’t be too happy if he makes it twenty. The entourage he’s attracted, sadly, don’t register until they’re already on his heels.

“Well, if it isn’t our favorite rafter. What are you doing out of the Barrio?” jeers a burly blond, who walks up beside him.

“Hello, Tommy,” Lance deadpans without sparing a glance. He doesn’t have to turn to know that the other’s cronies are following close behind.

“Come to find us? Did you miss me?” Tommy taunts.

“Definitely not.”

“No, of course not. You’re here for the Park boy, aren’tcha?” he asks.

Lance tenses momentarily before picking up the pace. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do. Word is you’ve been spending an awful lot of time ‘round his building. There’s a cure now, you know? For people like you,” he says with a malicious grin, making a crunching sound as he pantomimes a hammer hitting a very long nail.

“You’re wrong,” Lance responds through gritted teeth, biting back his anger so as to not engage further.

_Almost there. Just one more block…_

“I wonder what a budding socialite like Mrs. Park would do if she found out her son is a fucking fruit?”

 _CRACK!_ His knuckles slam hard into Tommy’s jaw, making him tumble backward but he doesn’t stop there. Lance grabs his shirt and goes down with him, getting a few more solid punches in before the other two jump into the scuffle. In a mess of flying fists and feet they quickly overpower him and as Tommy regains his footing they hoist him up, one on either side of him, bracing his arms.

Tommy spits and rubs the side of his face, glaring daggers. “You’re gonna regret that, fag!”

He looses a violent punch to Lance’s stomach, then another and another, until he doubles over in pain. When his legs give out the lackeys let him fall and join in on the beating, undeterred by the sickening cracks that their blows produce. Only satisfied when their victim grows unresponsive, the thugs stalk off, abandoning him at the mouth of the alleyway. Lance, unable to move his battered body, can do little else but succumb to the encroaching darkness. A final thought crosses him. He wouldn’t be able to meet up with Keith that weekend. His lips curve into a frown, thinking of how much he hated to keep Keith waiting.

* * *

  **Okinawa. 2004.**

“Damn it.”

Keith looks up from his paperback to find a young man in his mid-twenties looking rather disappointed at his being in the window seat. The man exhales sharply and begrudgingly slides into the seat beside him, immediately pulling his flip phone out of his pocket and tapping away. Glancing discreetly, Keith eyes his new companion. A tourist..? Ah no, a US soldier’s son, if the Fort Buckner lanyard was any indication. Probably on his way back home.

“Are you gonna stare all day?” he snaps.

Keith frowns. “I was just checking out your lanyard, you don’t have to be rude.”

“And _you_ don’t have to have the window seat yet here we are.”

He opens his mouth to fight back, but the other’s already flagging down a flight attendant and paying him no mind. Ugh, what a brat. This was gonna be a long trip.

Despite their rocky start, take off is smooth enough and after about thirty minutes of reading, the eye strain starts getting to him and he decides to take a nap. It isn’t until the rude guy taps him that he rouses.

“Buckle up, there’s some turbulence,” he informs Keith, pointing up to the lit sign.

“Turbu--”

As if anticipating his question, the plane shudders harshly. Hands absentmindedly search for the belt; Keith wonders how he could’ve slept through this much shaking. He looks out the window, but it’s pitch black outside and he can’t tell whether it’s raining or not. The rough ride continues, violent quakes like contractions grow closer and closer together. In the aisle across from them a small child whimpers and clings to her mother. An old man holds his armrest in a white-knuckled grip. The flight attendants strap in, exchanging worried looks.

Keith picks up on a whisper to his left and looks over, finding the man with his eyes closed and brows furrowed, clutching some sort of charm on a gold chain around his neck. He’s praying.

The intercom dings to life and an automated message begins to recite emergency procedures when the plane jerks wildly and goes askew, tilting hard to the right. He can see it now; out the window, bursts of bright orange peekaboo around the wing. The engine’s blown.

Screams erupt within the cabin as the aircraft begins to plummet. Their only working wing makes impact with something and gets torn off, leaving a gaping hole in the side of the plane. Screeches of terror meld with the howling of the wind as several passengers, entire rows of seats even, go flying into the darkness.

The man beside him, now sobbing, reaches blindly for something to hold and ends up clutching his forearm, crying out foreign words that he didn’t need to know to understand.

“Lo siento, mami. Lo siento.”

* * *

  **Vienna. 1349.**

He gently wipes the sweat from Lance’s brow, prompting the other to turn bleary blue eyes in his direction.

“Please, you must leave this place at once--”

“Oh, hush,” Keith replies without a moment’s hesitation, tired of having the same conversation again and again.

Over half their neighbors had fled the city after hearing about what had happened in Graz. The hapless citizens who remained could only weep and suffer as the sickness made its rounds. His beloved had heeded the doctor's instructions and taken every precaution and yet here he lie, hardly able to string a sentence together. When he’s not coughing and hacking until he bleeds, he’s delirious with the fever and unable to move. Nothing seems to make him better-- not the bloodletting, nor the vinegar soaks, not one thing those charlatans had suggested has helped. The only thing Keith can do is wait until his lover meets his inevitable end.

“I couldn’t bear it if you’d succumb to the illness as well,” Lance persists between labored breaths.

Keith drops the damp rag back into the basin sitting by his feet, heaving a sigh. “Don’t you see, silly man, that if I were to abandon you in your time of need _I’d_ be the one who couldn’t bear it.”

“But for your sake--”

“Hush now,” he reiterates, cupping one of Lance’s unnaturally warm, freckled cheeks in his hand. “You need rest if you are to keep fighting this sickness. Rest and know that I will not leave your side, Lance. In this life nor the next.”

His words manage to elicit a faint smile from the ailing man. Keith gathers up the basin and starts for the front door when he hears the other’s feeble voice once more.

“I love you.”

“And I, you,” he answers, shouldering the door open.

Keith walks to the edge of the street and dumps the old water and rags, contemplating a trip to the well before sundown when he is wracked with a violent cough. The empty basin clatters to the cobblestone as he tries to stifle the sound with his hands. Withdrawing his hands at the end of his fit, he grimaces at the smear of blood on his palm. Collecting the basin once more, he trudges back to their home. He doesn’t have the heart to tell Lance that he’d succumbed a long time ago.

* * *

  **Chicago. 1950.**

“So you’re not even gonna go see him off? Aren’t public defenders required to watch the sentence get carried out?” the aide inquires from his spot over the threshold.

Keith doesn’t look up from the many files littering his desk. “Firstly, we are not, and secondly, De La Cruz’s was an open and shut case. Eyewitness testimonies placed him at the scene of the crime an hour before John Morgan’s murder and he had no alibi to corroborate his story. Coupled with the fact he owed the man several months of rent and Morgan’s shit temperament, it’s no wonder all of his appeals were denied.”

It wasn’t like he’d had more than fifteen minutes to go over De La Cruz’s file before being summoned into the courtroom. If the accused hadn’t been so vehemently against pleading guilty, they could have taken a plea bargain.

“So you’re just--”

“The case is _over,_ Charlie. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got two dozen cases just like his waiting for me,” he says, waving the assistant away.

“Yes, sir,” the kid mumbles, heading out into the hall and shutting the door behind him.

Keith sighs, reaching for the thickest file in the stack. The morning slips as he pores over page after page of case notes, jotting down the gist of things and working on plausible arguments. After finishing off the first of many cases, he glances at his wristwatch.

12:25.

He wonders if the execution is already over. Ol’ Sparky doesn't beat around the bush.

As if egged on by the sting of losing a case, he decides to work straight through lunch and get as many of these files as he can knocked out before the end of the day. By a quarter to five, he’s got a neat pile of completed work placed in the out tray and a sense of self-satisfaction… that is, until he hears someone shouting his name from down the hall.

“Mr. Park!” Charlie calls again, skidding to a stop outside his office and yanking the door open.

“What is it now, Charlie?”

The teen takes a moment to catch his breath before blurting, “De La Cruz was innocent! The murder weapon was found in apartment 636. Some guy named O’Toole. Apparently, he and Morgan were old gambling buddies and it turns out--”

The aide goes on, but Keith’s already stopped listening. He leans forward, head in his hands.

An innocent man is dead. Lance De La Cruz is dead. And it’s all his fault.

* * *

  **Rome. 127 BCE.**

The young senator strolls through the market, his scribe following close behind, though careful not to step on his master’s robe.

“Senator Egnatius and Senator Jovian would like to know your stance on the issue before the next gathering,” the scribe presses.

He scoffs. “Of course, they do. Those doddering fools are so afraid of being displaced that they circle me like vultures, waiting for an error to exploit.”

An irate voice catches his attention and blue eyes flick over to the auction scaffold, the source of the commotion. A well-dressed house servant is arguing with two auctioneers, dragging a shackled servant along with him. The one in chains is in bad shape. Oily, dark hair bound haphazardly and wearing nothing but a shabby white loincloth, his exposed back is lousy with the scars of far too many lashings, both faded and ones that look fairly recent. He has his head bowed but when the house servant refers to him, he gives the chain a sharp yank and the man falls to his knees, facing the open market. Blue eyes grow wide.

That one on the ground is Cato’s slave. The senator couldn’t quite recall a given name, something with a ‘K’. They had never been formally introduced, rather, the old codger had just mentioned his existence a handful of times. What he did have firm memory of was the nickname Cato had given him: Unbreakable. And it was true; the slave had been previously owned by two different men. Each one had branded a familial insignia into his olive skin, the marks signifying that this man had been ill-fit to serve not once, but twice before. And yet Cato still felt he was up to the challenge, though as it turns out, that was not the case.

The Roman feels a stab in his chest as their eyes meet from across the market. How many festivities at Cato’s had he slipped away from, preferring to spend the night indulging in this man? How many times had he excused himself from the table, meeting Unbreakable in secret for quick, passionate trysts?

Now there he knelt, a fresh wound glowing angry red on his chest. A third brand. The one that seals his fate. He’d be sentenced to the mines.

Unbreakable continues to gaze at him with a forlorn look and for a moment, he feels a tug, an urge to cross the market and—

“Senator? Is something wrong?”

He snaps to and turns his back on the scaffold. “It’s nothing. Come along, we’ve plenty of work to do before the meeting.”

* * *

  **San Francisco. 1979.**

“Hold the elevator, please!” he calls toward the moving doors, sprinting toward the elevator.

A hand donning a fingerless glove reaches out from inside and stops the doors. The nails are painted black, though the polish is chipped.

“Thanks,” he says upon entering, finding only a single young man within. “Going up?”

“No, going down, sorry.”

Lance shrugs. “It’s okay.”

He reaches over and presses the button with his floor number on it, heading over to the opposite end of the elevator. The other lifts a pair of headphones from around his neck and places them over his ears, clicking the play button on his Walkman. There are multiple cassette tapes in his jacket pockets. After a few seconds the gears begin to turn and the rock music that starts up is so loud that Lance can hear it all the way on his end. Glancing over at him, it doesn’t come as a big surprise that the guy is blasting some punk band. His entire ensemble screams ‘rebel.’ Long, unruly hair, black boots, clad in layers of plaid and dark denim-- a sharp contrast to his bell bottoms and beaded necklace.

_Ding._

The elevator opens up to the lobby and the rocker meanders toward the exit. On his way out, one of the tapes slips out of his jacket and clatters to the ground without him noticing.

Lance scoops it up and yells, “Hey, you dropped something!”

The stranger doesn’t hear him over his private concert. He steps out onto the sidewalk, checks for oncoming traffic, and then jaywalks across the street.

Lance shakes his head as the elevator door bumps into his shoulder for a second time, as if urging him to pick a side to stand on. Examining the cassette in his hand, he finds it to be pretty generic, save for a crooked label with two words on it.

For Keith.

* * *

  **Hartford. 1648.**

He watches from the very back of the mob as Lance is led up onto the scaffold by his bound wrists. His appearance incites a massive uproar as the townsfolk scream insults and pelt him with rotten fruit. Keith bites back a sob.

“The accused has been found guilty of witchcraft, consorting with the devil for the power to bewitch men, and other such blasphemous acts,” the reverend bellows over the riotous crowd as Lance is fitted with a noose, “He has refused to name any accomplices, therefore the council has concluded that the rash of misfortune that has plagued our town stems from this man. He will be given one more opportunity to plead his innocence.”

The mob _boos_ at the proposition, but the reverend raises a hand high overhead and a hush falls over them.

He turns toward Lance and states, “This is your last chance, witch. Reveal the identity of your illicit lover and you may yet be spared.”

It doesn’t seem as though the accused is heeding the reverend. Instead Lance’s eyes are fervently scanning the crowd, only coming to a stop when they find the aforementioned party. The illicit lover. The love of his life.

Keith clamps a hand over his mouth to muffle a whimper as a watery-eyed Lance offers him a wobbly smile.

The reverend cries, “Again, he refused to confess. For his crimes, the prisoner has been sentenced to death! You will hang from the neck until dead, and may God have mercy on your soul.”

The townsfolk resume their clamor and the executioner steps forward, holding a black bag. As the bag is brought down over his head, Lance mouths a final ‘I love you’, just for Keith.

Hot tears stream down his face.

* * *

  **Clermont-Ferrand. 1991.**

Lance pushes a toy truck along the sidewalk, gathering pebbles and placing them in the bed to act as passengers. When he’s filled the bed to the brim, he gives it a shove, watching gleefully as the small stones skitter across the pavement. His trunk rolls a good distance before bumping into the leg of a bulletin board and tipping onto its side. The boy chases after it, collecting his toy before looking up.

Amid the myriad of colorful flyers, one in particular catches his eye. It has a picture of a boy on it, who looks to be about his age. A boy with messy, black hair and almond eyes. He’s not entirely sure, but Lance thinks he’s played with that boy before at the park. There are lots of numbers and words around the picture, many of which he’s not familiar with, but the one at the top he’s seen before.

Missing.

“Let’s go, sweetheart, it’s almost dinnertime!” His mother waves him over.

Lance scampers off with his truck in his hands, the boy on the flyer all but forgotten.

* * *

  **Gettysburg. 1863.**

Keith wipes the sweat from his brow. Tugging the kerchief from the lower half of his face, he takes a deep breath — one he instantly regrets. After the Union’s momentous triumph over Lee’s forces the previous day, there is much cause for celebration, but it’s near impossible to savor the victory while carrying out the gruesome task of laying to rest the bodies of their brothers-in-arms that are strewn about the battlefield. He stands at the bottom of a deep grave, assisting those above in carefully lowering the bodies to preserve their dignity. After giving life and limb for their nation, they damn-well deserve to be treated with respect.

A shadow blocks the streaming sun; another of the deceased is being sent down, likely the last of the bunch lest the grave be overstuffed. He reaches up and touches the fallen soldier’s back, instructing the others to release once he has a firm grip. The body falls into his arms and he’s struck by how light this one is compared to the others. Giving the soldier a once over, it isn’t difficult to tell why. The man, no, the _boy_ he’s holding appears to be about his same age, somewhere near the end of his teenage years. His skin is much darker than Keith’s, like that of a farmhand, which wouldn’t be surprising. Unskilled farm folk are prime candidates for the front lines. A smattering of freckles adorns his grimy face and unseeing eyes stare off into the distance. Blue, like the clear summer skies.

He doesn’t recognize the soldier as a part of his unit, and yet, in this moment, he feels so familiar. In a sense, Keith feels like he’s cradling himself; a child thrown into the destruction and disarray of a war-torn countryside, unprepared for the pain and anguish that awaited him on the field. _Well no longer,_ he thinks, setting the body down gently beside the others. The boy reaches up and shuts the unknown soldier’s eyes, hanging his head.

_You can rest now._

* * *

  **Corsica. 2017.**

“Keith,” begins Pidge, impatience laced in their tone.

“I can’t.”

They cross their arms. “It’s our last semester abroad. You said, and I quote, ‘if I don’t talk to him before the end of the semester--”

“I know, but I can’t.”

“After all this, you’re just gonna go back to VU without even telling him how you feel?” they press on.

Keith shrugs halfheartedly, repositioning the telescope bag on his shoulder. “It wasn’t that big a deal…”

“But it was to you.”

Pidge’s phone goes off and they glance at the notification flickering across the screen. A message from Hunk.

_‘Almost there, keep stalling.’_

They tuck the phone into their pocket and continue so as to not look conspicuous.

“So what you’re saying is, if Lance showed up _right now_ you’d just completely ignore him?”

He quirks up an eyebrow. “I never said--”

“There you guys are!”

Keith flinches at the oh-so-familiar voice, shooting his classmate a look of betrayal. Pidge simply shrugs in response, a sly grin tugging at their lips.

Lance walks up and casually drapes his arms around the two of them. “So who’s ready to get their astronomy on?”

Keith grows stiff upon contact, gripping the bag strap across his chest in tight fists.

“We brought the gear,” Hunk chimes in, looking particularly cheeky as he waves at Keith.

_So he was in on it too?_

Lance and Pidge had already begun talking about what constellations they’d chosen for their projects when Keith squirms out of the other’s loose hold, starting up the sidewalk.

“Quit wasting time. The Regional Nature Park is far enough as it is,” he huffs, eliciting a chorus of sighs and groans from his group.

He makes sure to stay a few feet ahead of them until his very obvious blush recedes.

It isn’t long before Hunk suddenly ‘remembers’ an assignment due that night and as they approach the entrance of the park, Pidge comes down with a mystery illness and also decides to head back. Mere minutes after they’d gone, Keith’s phone vibrates.

_‘Don’t forget to tell him about Bastille Day!’_

He clicks his tongue and continues hiking up the winding footpath, keeping his distance. The pair eventually pick a clearing to settle in and set up camp, making casual conversation throughout but nothing of real importance. As the sun disappears behind distant hills and the first stars of the night begin to shine, they take turns looking through the telescope and jot down notes for their final presentations. Upon finishing the assignment, Keith starts collecting his things when he notices Lance ambling around the clearing, periodically picking things up off the ground.

“What are you doing?”

The taller man doesn’t look up. “What’s it look like? I’m gathering firewood.”

He furrows his brow. “Firewood? It’s not even that late, we can make it back before--”

His companion gives a sigh.

“C’mon Keith. The tent’s already up, it’s a great night out… just humor me, will ya?”

His face gets hot at the thought of sharing a tent with Lance, and he quickly looks away without offering a reply. The other resumes gathering sticks.

Lance proves himself to be quite the woodsman and starts the fire all on his own despite admitting it’s his first time camping. Satisfied, he plops down on the grass beside his classmate. Their hands brush against each other, prompting a nervous Keith to shift his hand onto his lap. He fidgets, unsure of how to start conversation, much less bring up the events that had transpired on _that day._

“It’s been great, huh?” Lance asks, his eyes trained on the myriad of stars overhead.

“Hm?”

“Studying abroad,” he clarifies.

“Oh. Yeah, it’s been really nice.”

Keith, still as awkward as he’d been in high school, struggles to keep the conversation going, but it doesn’t seem to bother Lance, who simply chatters on.

“I really liked coming out here because, since there were so few of us coming along, I feel like we really had a chance to get to know each other. Bond, y’know? I mean, well I’ve known Hunk since we were kids, but I got to meet people that I didn’t even know were in my program. I got to meet Rolo and Nyma and Pidge…”

He glances over at Keith. “... I got to meet you.”

“Yeah, same,” the other replies, kicking himself for sounding so dismissive.

Lance pauses, looking pensive for a moment. “Hey, do you remember Bastille Day?”

“I remember you drinking on Bastille Day,” Keith replies, wary of where the conversation is headed.

Lance laughs, playfully shoving his companion’s shoulder. “Oh c’mon. From what I recall, you weren’t exactly abstaining either.”

Keith chuckles lightly, but hesitates before responding. He’s going to tell him, right here, right now. The man licks his lips, takes a deep breath, open his mouth to speak and--

“I dunno what you’ll think of this,” Lance begins, and Keith instantly deflates. “I’m actually a little embarrassed to admit it but… Bastille Day was the highlight for me.”

The other watches him closely. “Why’s that?”

Lance scratches the back of his head, turning away with a sheepish look. “Granted, I _did_ take advantage of the wine-tasting stalls in Calvi, so the memories are a little scrambled up, but at the fireworks show on the beach…”

Gray eyes start to widen.

“When we lost the group by the pier, I feel like…” he laughs, shaking his head, “I dunno, it’s probably stupid, but I feel like we kissed.” Lance quickly appears to change his mind, waving dismissively. “You know what? Just forget I said anything, it was probably just the booze and--”

“Hey Lance.”

“Hm?”

The man in question turns to look at him only to be met with a passionate kiss. Perhaps a little too reckless, a little too strong, but passionate all the same. Keith presses into him, burying a hand in his thick, chestnut locks, only to catch himself and immediately draw back, regretting his snap decision. Lance stares back at him with wide eyes, a dumbfounded expression, and a light pink dusting on his freckled cheeks. The regret intensifies.

“Shit, I didn’t-- I mean, that wasn’t-- I, uh…” he trips over his words, absolutely flushed, but his sputtering comes to a stop when two hands cup the sides of his face.

Lance leads him forward and leans in, melding their lips in a much gentler, heartfelt kiss.

When they part, a jokey grin creeps onto his face. “You should’ve told me sooner. We could’ve been doing stuff like this more often.”

The blush has yet to recede on either of them, but Lance still snickers confidently and adds, “Don’t worry, we’ll practice that kiss of yours. Don’t wanna chip a tooth.”

“Oh, shut up,” Keith replies, playfully pushing Lance back. He’s embarrassed as all hell.

Once the teasing banter and laughter dies down, they fall into a comfortable silence.  

“Hard to believe it’s only been two semesters,” Keith comments, eyes averted.

Lance slides his hand across the grass and places it over Keith’s, making him lift his gaze. He doesn’t pull away this time, instead loosely lacing their fingers together. Lance beams.

“It really is. Kinda feels like I’ve known you my whole life, y’know?”

A smile tugs at Keith’s lips. “I was thinking the same thing.”

**Author's Note:**

> About time I make a post on here. Cloud Atlas wasn't the first thing to inspire my love for reincarnation AUs, but it definitely played a part! And rewatching it last weekend played a part in the creation of this fic. Frosbisher was my favorite character so I couldn't help but draw from his 'big line'. I wanted to do pure reincarnation, but the times overlap quite a bit so I guess it ended up being parallel universes. Oh well!
> 
> This is a gift for the Voltron Secret Valentine’s event. This is took entirely too long but I hope you like it, friend!


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